I have only twice donated blood.

The first time, they sucked a full bag out of me. I passed out as soon as I stood up. My head filled with complete blackness, then I woke up to a nurse. It lasted but a few seconds.

The second time, I laid quiet on the gurney, in the gym of the Boulder YMCA. Head twisted around to stare at the blue plastic risers, the basketball hoopers, the painted lines of the floor, random banners - I wanted to look at anything other than the tube lodged into my arm. Obviously I'm not afraid of needles, but, blood work in unnerving, especially when you've seen someone lose so much of it. I thought donating would help make me feel better about things I wish I hadn't seen.

The nurse walked up. She said: "Looks like we won't get much out of you," so I turned my face and saw her cracked, yellowing fingernail pointing to the tube. Thin blood squelched up into a meager bag. She snapped on gloves, disconnected the needle, then helped me up. When she sat me down at the snack table, I asked her if the blood was usable. She said no.

I woke up to Kenny wafting ammonia smelling salts under my nose. That last time I passed out, I saw nothing. This time was different.

This time, a dream came.

I was paddling along a purple river in a small canoe. A cobra perked up on the bank, glaring at me. I drew my oar in, hoping not to tempt it, but the bastard slithered into the water and under my canoe. That's when Kenny woke me up.

"Hey, you're finally awake."

I couldn't speak at first, still terrified the cobra was plotting to unhinge its jaw and swallow me whole.

"You scared me." He had now put down the salts and was pressing a cold cloth on my forehead. "I've never had anyone pass out on me."

"Oh." I tried to sit up but my brain was swimming. "Oh, I'm so happy to be your first."

He patted my hair. "Don't get up. I'll get you a pop."

Kenny disappeared and I could hear him ravaging the mini-fridge by reception. I wiped cold sweat from my upper lip with my shirt collar, then looked at the fresh ink.

It was only the black outline of a tiny, gushing heart, but I loved it. Anything empty is open to possibility. To potential.

"Craig" and "first date." Do those words even belong in the same cavern of thought? Wondering about it elicited twisting waves of disbelief in my stomach. Really, Kyle? The guy that swatted your hand away on the first day of work? You're going to go out with him?

It felt as if a giant, invisible hand had reached down, plucked me into the sky, and plopped me into an alternate universe. Hell, the way Craig switched his attitude so fast made me think he is his own entity of multiple universes. I know I've said before that he was a storm.

Is he storms or universes?

I suppose both. He is human, after all.

"Guess who just passed out?" I texted him as soon as Kenny sent me off into my room.

"Oh fuck, are you cereal? You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm gucci."

"Good. Why did you pass out though?"

I sent him a photo of my heart.

He replied: "CUTE. How much did that hurt?"

"'Twas only a temporary discomfort but I passed out due to this phenomenon called 'not eating'. My fault."

"I should have taken you to dinner or something. I feel bad now."

"Don't! I wasn't even thinking that. But…" Now was my chance to slip the hint that I wanted to spend more time with him. "I'd like to take you somewhere tomorrow. Either before or after the movie. Up to you."

Craig didn't reply for a few minutes, so I laid on my bed, fiddling with bird bones. I didn't want to, but I thought about Bebe. I guess we really aren't just our thoughts.

I wondered if she was okay, what she was doing right then. Probably streaming.

I went to my desk, opened the laptop, and logged into Twitch.

Sure enough, she was playing Bloodborne, legs crossed in a fuzzy purple gaming chair. The chat log rolled slowly, and surprisingly un-creepy. All the comments were game-related. Good, the moderators were doing their job.

I chipped in a few dollars. Her eyes widened when she saw my username, ChallahAtYaBoi, dance across the screen with the donation amount. She smiled.

"Thanks, Kyle. I hope you're alright." She said this as if I were out fighting in a war.

Then, a text from Craig: "You could literally murder me, leave my body in a ditch, and I'd be okay with it."

I froze, staring at the words from my soon-to-be-boyfriend in front of my ex-girlfriend. Whatever she was saying became warbles of unheard words behind the phone screen. I texted Craig back, "I feel the same about you… but at the same time, please don't murder me? I'm going to bed now so I'll talk to you in the morning."

"Okay, good night :)"

"Night :D"

I put the phone on my desk, entered a smiley face into Bebe's chat, then closed the laptop. As I curled into bed, I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. The idea that what I was doing was actually cheating waved in. Acid slithered up my throat.

It hadn't really sunk in. I had to remind myself that Bebe and I weren't together. Should I not be talking to Bebe anymore?

Stupid question. I'm an adult. I can talk to whoever the hell I want.

We would have to talk anyway for this Florida trip. I hoped we would be able to get through this wedding without fighting. My heart of hearts, which I really think is just my stomach, said no.

I remember waking up to Cartman's burly stomps from his room, past my bedroom door with a burp, then fade away to the (almost always trashed) kitchen. His stomps always bugged me, but it can't be helped. Some people's whole personality sets in their steps. I mean, I walk pretty fast, pretty frantic. Cartman is just fucking loud. When he's reincarnated for the next life, if there is such a thing, he'll make an excellent rooster. Moreover, he's an absolute cock.

He was like this in juvie too. We shared a bunk bed, me on top, him on the bottom (mind out of the gutter please) in our cell. Sometimes I wished I was in maximum security because those kids had their own cells. Which, by the way, the counselors advised us against calling it our "cell." "Dorm" was the preferred term. Whatever. I have yet to see a dormitory built of cinderblocks, vacant of windows. Sugar-coating language pisses me off. A cell is a cell. What I did was wrong. What Cartman did was wrong. We deserved to be in that cell. Now he's less likely to commit arson and defecate in public places in broad daylight. And I don't do rails of crack and steal cars anymore. Progress.

We had a mandatory wake-up time every morning. Soon, our bodies biology formed around it and woke u up naturally. But for the first few weeks, I tried to stay in bed because I wanted to sleep my sentence away, but Cartman's stomping and shrill voice ensured that wasn't a possibility. He'd reach up over the metal frame and slap the top of my head until I got up. My pissiness in the morning delighted him, like how a child suddenly becomes a galloping, clapping horse when their parent finally concedes to letting them have that second bowl of ice cream. He finally stopped after I snatched his thick wrist one morning and bent it so hard it almost broke. I wouldn't recommend myself to ever be a parent.

With the melody of pots and pans clattering in the kitchen and the drone of our neighbor's lawnmower, I laid there trying to remember my dreams, but nothing came to mind. All I could think of was the snake that swam under me while I was passed out in Kenny's chair. I should have told him. He would have known what it meant.

I rolled out of bed, left to take a piss, then came back to my phone lighting up with a message.

Craig: "What time should I pick you up?"

"Soon-ish. I just woke up."

"Okay, just let me know. I'll come for you."

"I would hope so :P"

"Phrasing?"

"Oh hell yeah."

I ambled out to the kitchen where Cartman, already dressed for a day of artfully stabbing people, was whistling and pouring coffee. Eggs popped in a pan. I thought of asking him to cook them on the sidewalk instead.

When he saw me, he changed his whistle to a bridal march, then sang: "Here comes the Jew, wonder which guy he blew…"

I broke past him to open the cabinet, grab a glass, and fill it with tap water. "You're quite fucking chipper this morning," I said.

"I'm in love."

"With what? The family bucket from KFC?"

"I mean it!" he said, agitating the eggs with a spatula. The yoke ripped and yellow seeped out. "God damn it." He held the spatula sideways like a barrier so the yolk would stop spreading and cook into an even glacier.

"Are you talking about the girl you brought over for Memorial Day?"

"No, fuck that bitch."

"Wow. What happened?"

"Turns out she's a stripper."

"So?"

He rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, with your girl being a Twitch thot and all."

"Don't you dare say that."

"But it's true!"

"If you call her a thot again, I'll punch all your teeth in."

"Okay, Prison Kyle. Remember you're back in the real world." He waved me off. "Anyway, it wasn't even really about her being a stripper. We've been to strip clubs, we know what happens, it's not all that bad. But she kept acting like she was better than me because of it. Like, cool, you shave your pussy professionally. Who cares?"

I leaned against the refrigerator and watched his face as he contemplated how to ask the question he was about to ask.

"Does Bebe shave?"

"I'm not answering that."

"It's just, she had that thing a couple years ago where she wasn't shaving her armpits, and-"

"-it was for charity. Nothing to do with anything."

"Just curious." He shrugged.

"Well, kill your curiosity, please."

"Damn, okay. Anyway, yeah. She was bragging like 'oh, so many guys send me dick pics. So many guys want to fuck me,' so I was like, 'so why fuck me? Go fuck them, and I'll fuck off'." He was talking with his hands quite a bit at this point. "I'll never understand bragging about how much other people want to fuck you if we're trying to fuck"

"Maybe it works for some people," I said. "Like she wanted you to tell her those other dudes can't fuck her as well as you can."

"I'm not a god damn mind reader, how am I supposed to know that?"

"Eh."

"Would that tactic work on you?"

"Not really," I admitted. I thought of how I would feel if Craig told me he had a line of guys waiting to fist or be fisted, I might react the same way Cartman did. "I guess it doesn't matter now, though."

"Damn straight."

I filled my glass again, then sat down at the breakfast bar. "So, tell me about this new chick."

"She looks like Kelly Clarkson." He slipped his eggs onto a plate and sat next to me.

"Uh. That last girl kind of looked like Kelly Clarkson, too. Seems like you have a type."

"What can I say? I like the thicc Greek girls."

Kenny emerged from his room, smelling of cucumber hair gel and wearing a shirt with flames on it that was two sizes too big for him. "Did someone say thicc Greek girls?"

"Apparently, Cartman's new girl looks like Kelly Clarkson."

"Show us." Kenny slid in next to Cartman.

Cartman wielded his phone, brought up her Tinder profile. What he showed us, yes, was a beautiful girl who resembled American Idol's first winner, but the photo…

"This is a mugshot!" I screeched. "She's using a mugshot as her profile picture! Even you wouldn't do that!"

"I like her honesty. She's, like, totally upfront with everything. We were up all night talking."

Kenny asked: "What was she arrested for?"

"Stealing a boat. Child's play."

"Stealing things that big is kind of hard," I said.

"Well, you would know."

"Considering I almost died in the process, yes."

Both of them went silent for a moment.

"Sorry," Cartman muttered.

"It's okay."

"Hey." Kenny reached behind and around Cartman for my hand. "How's the tattoo?"

I held up my fingers for him to see. "Good."

"Worth passing out for?"

"You bet."

"Let me see." Cartman snatched my wrist, grinding the bones together. "A heart? Why?"

I shrugged. Hard to explain that wanting for the sake of wanting.

It was predicted to be a hot fucking day, so I walked out barefoot, still in pajamas, and watered my flowers so they wouldn't shrivel into brown paper foliage. Gardening can give some anxiety, too. After planting the seeds, the world chooses whether it wants to work with you or not. It's all totally out of our control. Though I've tried to plant in soil not yet completely defrosted, and the blame deeply shifted to me.

I texted Craig that I was about to hop in the shower and he was welcome to head over anytime.

My beard was growing into scratchy, discombobulated patches, so I showered and quickly scoured myself, then went back to the bedroom to realize I had no clean clothes, not really. My closet was a mess at the time, with the transition from winter clothes to summer clothes at a standstill. All of my boxers were in a dirty basket and I panicked, thinking I was going to have free-ball this date, or at least make Craig wait so I could run a cycle, but that would take another hour at the least. If I chafe, I chafe.

I dug into the top drawer: black socks, white socks, photo of me and Bebe at the aquarium, a half-finished manuscript of a sci-fi novel I tried to write (don't judge me, turns out I don't have the stomach to write a story about humans draining all the water and resorting to drinking blood… and urine), old phone bill statements, an extra house key, fleshlight, flashlight, YMCA ID card, an Enya CD… fuck. Emergency boxer briefs. The dryer had torn it to tatters. In the trash is where they belonged, but from the contents of my drawer, you can gather I'm a pack-rat. Or I just forget these things are still there.

I whipped off the towel and pulled on the boxer briefs, grimacing as air hit my right ass cheek. Twisting around, I saw only bits of fabric keeping my cheek from hanging completely out. Oh well, it'll have to do. It's not like anyone will see. And I doubted things would happen below the belt tonight. If it did, there was no way tattered boxers would ruin the mood, anyway.

The rest of my clothes were in a pile in the corner of the closet, floating in a purgatory of clean and dirty because I couldn't remember how often I'd worn them. I searched until I found a pair of camouflage shorts with a ketchup stain on the belt loop and a very old, very faded Blink-182 tee-shirt. There were light sweat stains in the pits so I did a quick sniff test. Not great. Not horrible, either. I sprayed it with Axe and pulled it over my head.

Craig's voice wafted from the waiting area:

"I'm here for Kyle."

Then Stan said something I couldn't make out because my ankle twisted on the last step of the spiral staircase. I caught myself on the railing, hoping no one saw. Kenny poked his head out from his cubicle.

"You alright, fam?"

"Fine." I leaned and rolled my ankle a few times until I was satisfied with the number of cracks (by the way, no ever tells you that after 24, you need Ibuprofen pretty much every day and your joints just fucking crack all the time).

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I only tripped."

"Oh, so you hear you man's voice and fall down the stairs? That's so cute."

"I didn't fall because of him."

"Sure, Jan." Kenny retreated back into his space like a troll slinking back under a bridge.

I shook it off, kissed the buck snout with two fingers, and walked on. Cartman was watching a video on his phone and didn't notice me walk by. I went up, stood by the front desk where Stan was going over an illustration with a client.

"There he is," Stan announced.

"There I am."

"Your Craig is here."

I wanted to say he's not My Craig. At least, not yet. Though, truly, he would never be My Anything. You can never claim a person for yourself, anyway.

Stan continued, "And he brought you coffee."

Indeed, Craig sat next to two cups on a nightstand fiddling with sunglasses, wearing a turquoise tank top that made his eyes look brighter, and his dark hair in uncombed glory, smiling up at me.

"Sounds like a keeper," the client commented, which I assumed she felt the need to say something since I was standing there, staring at him like a dumbass and saying nothing.

Craig stood up. "I hope he keeps me."

We kept staring at each other.

Even when Stan took his client back, he awkwardly sidled around me, but still managed to whisper: "Nice job, he's hot." I think Craig pretended not to hear, though he turned a shade darker.

"Hi," he said.

"Hello," I said.

I came out from behind the desk and hugged him. He tried to kiss me but I put a hand on his chest.

"Not here. They'll hear us," I whispered.

"What, the room full of taxidermied animal heads isn't romantic to you?" he whispered back.

I laughed. "Yeah, no…"

"Just… why?

"That's the aesthetic."

"It's a little creepy."

"Wouldn't it be weird if the animals were the tattooers, and they had human heads on the wall instead?"

"...what?"

"What?"

He pressed the back of his hand onto my forehead. "Ah, you feel normal. I thought you might have a fever for a second there."

I pushed his hand away but kept it clasped in mine. "You're so weird.

"You're weird." He flattened out my fingers to look at the tattoo. "Does it hurt?"

"It's a little sore."

"I'd like to leave you a little sore-"

The ice cream truck languidly drove by. Cartman barrelled past us and out the door, almost pushing us into a navel piercing display.

Craig stared after him, partially in awe, partially in disbelief. "That was Cartman, I assume."

"Dead on."

We left, coffees cupped in our hands, mine nice and bitter (like me). I noticed he cleaned the trash out of his car.

"You didn't have to clean up, I've already seen your filth," I said as we drove into the street, passing by Cartman running back to the shop, an arm full of Fudgesicles. He motioned like he was going to throw one at us.

"I should have cleaned up a long time ago, to be honest."

I asked him to stop at this small park a few miles south of the theater. There are no swings or playscapes - only a few memorial plaques to Vietnam veterans.

"That one is Stan's grandpa," I pointed to the Marsh square. "Stan said he tried to ask him about the things he saw before he died, but he couldn't get the words out. He passed away right around the time Stan turned 17, I think. Stan thinks that maybe his grandpa did some things he was too ashamed to talk about."

"Maybe. Maybe not. It might have just been too painful to tell."

We glossed over the handful of other engraved names with long blades of grass curling around them.

"I guess it's better not to know some things. I don't know what I would have done if… you know."

"If you got drafted? Not a lot of choice about what you can do after that."

"Yeah."

"Good news is, we don't have to think about it."

"Then let's not," I said, taking his hand. "This isn't even what I wanted to show you."

I brought him out to a line of trees, where a blackbird swooped down and beat her wings at us, bawling for us to get away from her nest. We walked to a small stream. A tiny, stone-encrusted waterfall poured sweetly over a zipping cluster of minnows. Flat stone slabs lined the edges of the water.

We sat together on a stone and stretched our legs out. The stone was hot and I couldn't set my hands on it, so I folded them in my lap instead.

"The shop gets really loud sometimes. Even being out in the backyard doesn't always help because the neighbors are loud too. Sometimes, even my thoughts are too loud, so I ride my bike out here. Listen to music, read, whatever. I stay until it gets dark."

Craig stared down into the minnows. "I can imagine this would be a nice place to be for that."

"Do you have a place?"

He gave me a cool stare. "A place?"

"Yeah, like a quiet place to go to when things are too loud… or too much."

"I like being in the lab. I like being with you in there."

"Nothing that's just for yourself?"

"I don't really have time to be in a place like this. Everyone needs something from me."

Another bird hopped along the bank, twitching, eyeing the twigs and minnows that floated past its wiry feet.

"Who's everyone?" I asked. "Don't tell me you've got the president calling you at 3 am."

"If the president ever called me, I'd hang up on him and set my phone on fire. Fucking Cheeto Voldemort. You know the electronic voting machines were hacked, right?"

"I know."

"And no one cares!"

"I care, Craig."

He eyed me with that cool stare again. "I wish more people were like you. I wish more people cared."

"My grandma, my savta, always used to tell me that for every bad person in the world, there are two more good people around the corner. You're definitely one of those good people."

A little smile at this. "You're hanging around the corner with me, right?"

"Of course." I put a hand on his knee. I wanted to ask him more. Where else does he go when his roommate is being an ass… which seems to be all the time? I wanted to ask about the roommate, too. Who the hell is this guy? But I didn't want the conversation to turn onto Sour Boulevard. "One time, Cartman and I drove out here when it was super cold, and the water was frozen mid-fall. It was so cool."

Craig said nothing about the frozen water but stayed stuck in this specific, confused look that recently started popping up when I talked about Cartman.

"What's the deal with you two, anyway? I don't get it. You seem to hate each other but you're… friends?"

"What are you getting at?"

"You make it sound like you're stuck together."

"I mean, we're not. Not really. Either of us could leave anytime."

"Is he your ex?"

I made a sound like an opossum inhaling a golf ball, then laughed. Hard.

Craig laughed too. "I guess that's my answer."

When I finally stopped giggling, I inhaled deeply, letting the water babbles lull me back into reality.

"No, not my ex by a longshot. He hasn't had the pleasure. We've been friends since…" What should I say? We boarded in the same "dorm" together? "We met in high school."

"Oh."

"Are you… no. You're not jealous, are you?"

"The fuck, no?"

"You look a little jealous, babe."

He sucked in his breath, then smiled. "Babe…" he repeated, then glanced at the water again. "Fine. Maybe I am."

It was cute. But not necessary.

"You have no reason to worry. Or be jealous," I told him. "Cartman and I are only friends and it'll stay that way. Unless I kill him. Or he kills me."

Craig shook his head. "I'm not jealous in that way. I'm jealous because I wish I could have known you for that long, too."

"It might be for the best. I've been through a lot the past few years. There are things that… Look, I'm not always the easiest person to be around. I have a lot of panic attacks. Night terrors. Sometimes I scream. I hope that doesn't scare you off."

He chewed on his lip and looked into my eyes. Usually, direct eye contact chills me, but his eyes were so, so nice to look at. "That doesn't scare me. It makes me sad that you have to go through that, though."

"I'm getting better, I think. It used to be a lot worse."

"I'm glad." He patted my hand. "I'm difficult to be around too, sometimes, so I guess I understand a bit. I've never been great with people."

"But you have friends. And Dr. Vince obviously adores you."

"I do, but everyone lives so far out now. And Dr. Vince loves all her students, you know that."

"We must be the two favorites."

"We'll see about that by the end of the summer. Surely, she'll get sick of us."

"Bet." I thought of my conversation with Kenny, how Craig seemed to be alone in everything, and even further, lied about it. "But still, I can't say I blame you. Having good social skills is a fucking art form these days."

"That doesn't excuse - well, you thought I was an asshole at first."

"Because you were being an asshole. You barely shook my hand."

"I'm still really sorry about that. I was nervous. And I thought you were going to be some random stoner in the lab, but I also thought you were cute, which made me more nervous."

"Oh, really? What did you think when you saw me?"

"Oh, fuck."

"I thought that too."

"I could kind of tell. You don't have a very good poker face."

"I don't have a good face at all."

"Stop." He leaned over and kissed my cheek and… I don't know. My chest was warm. I could really feel my heart beating. That's all I can say.

But I couldn't sit anymore without asking: "Why did you lie to me?"

"Huh? About what?"

"About meeting Kenny at iHop. You said you were with a friend. Kenny says you were alone."

"I… I'm sorry. I did invite one of my friends, but she canceled last minute."

"You could have told me that to begin with."

"I didn't want you to think I was a total loner. And you're always talking about your friends, and I didn't want you to think that the only person I hang out with is my sister."

Admittedly, this was the first and last time Craig would ever lie to me. Withhold information, yes, he'd be doing a lot of that, and so would I. But it was such a small lie, and I was falling so hard for him that I let it go instantly. His reasoning was more than good enough.

"I just want you to be yourself with me, Craig. I don't care if you think you're a loser. 'Cause I really like you. A lot."

"I like you a lot, too." He smiled.

"No more lying."

"I promise. Here," he outstretched his hand. "I'll even shake on it."

I took his hand. He shook it briefly, then pulled me into a kiss. Sneaky bastard.

I don't know what reaction Craig was expecting from my first viewing of Blade Runner. I knew it wasn't the same as the book, so I kept an open mind. He kept glancing to see my face during key scenes. The one girl, Pris, with the black make-up across her eyes, reminded me of PeeBee from Mass Effect: Andromeda and it bothered the shit out of me, though I know the tribute is supposed to be the other way around.

Still, I let him steal popcorn from my lap and thought about how lucky I felt to be there, at that moment.

"Did you like it?" he asked as we walked around this outdoor mall complex by the Phoenix Theater, hand-in-hand.

"Y-Yeah," I said, not looking at him.

"Don't be a Fake Franny. I won't take it personally if you didn't like it."

"I need time to digest it. I liked the aesthetic, though!"

"Oh, like you how you like the aesthetic of stuffed woodland critters?"

"That's not even the worst of it. One time this lady gave us a voodoo doll head in a jar."

"Woooowww, what a thoughtful gift."

"She must have noticed the jar of baby doll limbs Stan keeps in his cubicle."

"So it's Halloween all the fucking time for you guys."

"Every day is a fucking nightmare, so yes."

As the sun began to lower, we found ourselves at Tony's. If there is a God, I hope They heard my silent prayer that the cashier wouldn't recognize me and ask about Bebe. She didn't. Then I remembered that I'm a cashier, I don't give a shit about anything, and neither do most cashiers.

"So, when did you figure out you were queer?" he asked me after lodging a spoon into a triple-decker melted fudge nightmare. He was already almost done.

Elvis watched over us, almost judgementally. If he could speak through the photo, I would imagine he'd call us gross. At least Craig and I weren't writing songs about kissing our cousins and fucking 13-year olds.

"It's hard to pinpoint exactly, but I'm pretty sure it started when my parents hired a tutor for me and I couldn't stop staring at him for some reason. Like, the same way I stared at girls. Nothing ever came of it though, he was a bit older. What about you?"

"This is going to sound weird, but I've kind of known since fourth grade. And everyone else seemed to be betting on it, too. When I came out to my parents, they weren't surprised at all."

I gripped my waffle cone. "I'm glad your parents were okay with it. Mine still don't know. Well, I mean, they might have guessed. But I've never officially come out to them."

"Are they homophobic or something?"

"Not really. I just haven't talked to them in so long, it seems kind of stupid to tell them now."

"When was the last time you talked to them?"

"It's been years."

He searched my face. I gazed over at Marilyn Monroe's painted crossed eyes.

"Why, Kyle?"

"This isn't a first date discussion," I said, a bit too harshly.

He jolted, cocked his head back, blinking hard. "What's the matter with you?"

At least that's better than what the fuck is wrong with you?

"Everything."

I don't know what came over me. My heart rate sped up and a lump formed in my throat. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe and fuck… it felt like everyone was staring at me. Was I freaking out? I don't remember. I was probably fucking freaking out.

"Craig, I'm sorry, this isn't going to work."

"Whoa, wait, what?"

My hands trembled, I dropped the cone on the table and scooted out of the booth. "I'm not good enough for you. I can already tell."

"Wait-"

I pushed open the doors, bells chiming after me, and walked across the street with my arms crossed, not caring if a car hit me. Just fucking hit me.

Stopping on the corner of a building, I let myself finally breathe. Then I realized I fucked everything up. Fuck. We were having a good day. And then I couldn't breathe. I hate myself.

A few people walked by with their dogs, their wives, husbands, sons, daughters. I wondered how many of these people would be dead in six months. How many would die in a car accident? The sun was setting lower. If I started walking now, I could make it home before it got too dark. I tightened my shoelaces, muttering "well, I tried, but bipolar Kyle wins again," to myself.

Craig poked around the corner.

"Kyle."

"Oh."

He walked around, arms out, shoulders hunched up. "What the fuck was that about?"

I couldn't speak. So many thoughts fizzing in my head and I couldn't pick one to pluck out and surge through my mouth.

"This is probably a loaded question, but are you okay?"

A streetlight came on.

"I'm okay. I'm sorry. I ruined everything."

He stared with his mouth slightly open as I tightened my other shoe.

"I'm going to walk home now," I said. "I'll let Dr. Vince know that I'm quitting. I'll go back to my old job."

"Then how am I going to see you? Unless you want me hanging around South Perk every night. Which won't work since you work in the mornings… guess I'll have to quit too."

"Craig… That's ridiculous."

"You're being ridiculous. Is there some, like, I don't know… A safeword or something you can tell me when you're about to have a panic attack? I didn't particularly enjoy sitting alone with a wall of Elvis's staring down at me."

"It's really hard for me to verbalize. I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry at all. Is it okay to touch you?"

"Please."

There is something special about hugs where the other person never tries to pull away. I got one of those hugs that day. He put his fingers in my hair and said, "I won't ask you about what happened anymore if it hurts you."

Even after that, I tried to insist that I walk home because I felt awful, but Craig wasn't having it. He practically kidnapped me.

When we left Tony's, I stared out the window while he drove with one hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh.

"I know this won't exactly be First Date Discourse either," he said, "But I feel like I should tell you about my dad. Well, my adoptive dad."

"You haven't said much about him, yet."

"There's a reason for that. He and my mom are divorced because his alcoholism got out of control. That story I told you about my mom and I going to Waffle House late at night is because that's when he'd come home and fight with her. After a while, we started going there on his drinking nights to avoid it, only coming home after we figured he was asleep. We kept Trisha in her car seat in the booth with us."

"Craig, that's horrible."

"We did what we had to do to survive. God, I remember I had to move my dresser in front of my bedroom door, or else he'd come in in the middle of the night and yell at me about random shit."

"That's…"

"Fucked up. I know."

Why were we so close to my house already? Was he driving faster? It seemed like he was driving faster, a bit more nervously.

"Do you still speak to your dad?" I asked.

"Every day. I don't have a choice."

"What do you mean?"

Craig sighed. "I live with my dad. I found out he was homeless after the divorce and I couldn't stand it. I know he fucked up, but he's my dad. I still love him."

"Hold on. This is the guy that calls you up to yell at you?"

"He still has some issues. He's working on it."

"By taking it out on you?"

"It's not like that."

"Kind of sounds that way."

The car was silent for several minutes, save for the squealing exhaust leak, and the occasional bass-busting truck we passed by, and low, soft 80s jams on the radio. We pulled up and parallel parked in front of the shop. He unbuckled and looked at me through the darkness.

"I know these kinds of things are hard to talk about, but I needed you to know," he said. "You're the only person I can imagine understanding. I don't have a lot to offer you, I know that. I'm an awkward person, I'm alone or busy most of the time, I don't know what I am and haven't bothered to find out, I have probably over $100k in student loan debt, and I live with my dad."

"You're taking care of your dad, Craig. That's different."

He cupped my face. "You're sweet. And that's the thing. I know you have issues that you're working through. I know that I can't give you what your girlfriend did. But, dude… when you said you weren't good enough for me, it broke my heart. Good enough for me? I feel like I'm not good enough for you. You're the best thing that's happened to me in years."

That day was so wild. All I remember feeling at that moment, with the way he talked to me, the way he looked at me like he wanted me, made me want to continue where we left off in his office. I kissed him, hard. We ended up in the back seat, and I let him put his hands everywhere, he let me put my hands everywhere.

I'm not saying that they're the *cure* for anxiety, but handjobs certainly ease the symptoms.